


Breaking Point

by hnsnrachel



Series: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin [1]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hnsnrachel/pseuds/hnsnrachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin, wilderness confusion"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**   
Breaking Point **

****  
It was comical, really. The first time she'd called you, you'd gritted your teeth and forced out the pleasantries, wanting to smack her with something heavy every time she suggested that your failed, self-laid road to the White House, and her -hopefully doomed - super-highway were the same thing, wondering if it would really be so wrong to wish that the next time she went hunting, it would be with Cheney and, well, everyone knows the risks of doing that. With every "aww shucks" and "gosh darn-it" your frustration had risen, until you were wondering if hitting yourself with something heavy might be the more effective answer.

The next time, she'd needed help. She wasn't coping very well with the sharp end of Washington politics, and you'd laughed at her, openly, when she asked you to help her. "Why would I do that?" had been your exact words, and she'd rambled on, losing herself down corridors, dead-ending, turning back on herself, making it impossible to follow the conversation. Until you remembered what she looked like and that she was a Republican, you couldn't work out why she was the VP pick. It's a bad state of affairs when you make George W Bush look like an enlightened man, but, somehow, they'd managed to find Palin. Amazing. The Fargo-esque accent had eventually driven you insane though, so you'd made an excuse and almost slammed the phone down, your head hurting from almost 45 minutes of trying to follow a nonsensical conversation, rubbing your temples as you tried to breathe slowly. How on Earth  was it possible that that woman could - potentially - be the first woman in the White House? You'd been saying, it can't be any woman, it had to be the right woman, and this was not the right woman.  But... she was perfect to fire up the Republican base, and possibly sway some of the female and college boy vote to their side.

And, you had to admit... she wasn't bad to look at.

After that, you'd been informed every morning for two weeks that the McCain campaign had requested that you meet with her, and in the end, you'd agreed for two reasons. It would get them to shut up, and, she should provide an entertaining distraction for a little of your day.

When she arrives at your office the day - and very awkward time - you'd requested, she walks in like she owns  
the place, just like on the campaign trail, and immediately your ire is raised. Something about the woman, despite the things that should be attractive, rubs you completely the wrong way. The accent, the hair, the perkiness, the informal approach "Can I call ya Hillary?" indeed.

What was happening in the world? Was it really possible that even in the media-driven land of the blind, no one could see just how wrong it would be to hand the Alaskan any power. Even Governor of Alaska was too much power to let this woman have, let alone Vice President - or, God forbid, President. 

You let her babble on for a few minutes, leaning on your desk, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on your cheek, curling slightly beneath your chin as you study her. Pretty, yes, that's true, but something calculating is in her eyes, something cold and almost predatory - though you don't think it's in that low-down dirty way. Not that you'd ... necessarily... complain.

"So anyway, Hillary, I was thinkin'" What happened to the 'g'? What was wrong with the 'g'? And thinking? Her? Unlikely, you decide as she starts rambling down one of those long aimless corridors, no escape button in sight. "If maybe you could tell 'em to, y'know, back off, lay down the pitchforks."

"What?"

"The liberal media. They like you."

"Were you watching the Primaries?!" You can't help the surprise. They like you? The media likes you? The same media that assassinated you, because, apparently it's still okay to attack a woman on the basis of her gender, there's nothing to stop them doing that. You could take it though, you didn't let them break you. The question was: would she?

"To be honest, I don't really pay much attention to what goes on in the lower 48. Just the same old Washington politics. We do things differently in Alaska."

"Hmm. I'm sure you do." She misses the undertone of scorn in your words, apparently, because she's off again, meandering through the maze of words and issues she seemed to have learned from flashcards without any comprehension of context or meaning. You barely listen, thinking about anything, anything, to provide a distraction.  
That is until she says one of the few things that could possibly make you lose your iron-clad self-control. "I think female solidarity might be a good thing here." Only she says it with a real emphasis on the 'r' that drives you crazy. "You know, you, you, there's a glass ceiling and if you help me we can shatter it. It's time to get a woman in the White House, doin' things the right way."

You calmly stand, walking round to lean against your desk, facing her, knowing that there's something dangerous in  
your eyes that she's apparently blind to. She continues "I mean, just because you failed doesn't mean it's impossible. Someone's gotta pick up that slack."

Before you know what you're doing, you have her pinned to the wall, your faces just inches apart, the fury roaring in your head as fire runs through your veins. "Let's get one thing straight. You will never be me"

 Then your lips are on hers, harsh, demanding. The younger woman rips her head away, panting. "I'm closer to the White House than you." Your grip on her shoulders tightens, and she hisses. The pleasure you feel at that doesn't come as a surprise. The months of being knocked back, derided, doubted because you're a woman - a capable strong woman - and the indignity of Bible Spice being lauded by those same people because she 'thinks' like a good woman is supposed to make this almost instinctive. You need to reassert your control, the indisputable fact that you are better than she could ever hope to be. Even if she's the only one who knows that this happened.

"I will personally see to it that you never, ever get even close." You lean in again, and she bites your lip before tracing it with her tongue, and you fight each other for control of the kiss, even as you're slowly walking her backwards, turning to push her down on your desk, ferocious, hungry, the anger that runs through you countering an equally heated burn, pushing you on, wanting to shut her up, just, shut her up. Her hands tug at your hair, rough, and you bite down hard enough to draw blood, sliding your hand beneath her too-low-cut blouse, squeezing her ample breasts roughly, nothing but the complex mixture of lust and contempt in your mind, ripping the shirt from her shoulders, enjoying the skin revealed to you as her hips thrust towards you, shameless.

So much for Conservative Republican. You wonder briefly what else about the Hockey Mom bluster is just a facade, but then you're caught up in much more pleasurable things, pinching, twisting, biting, tearing off her pants and turning her over, fucking her from behind, your fingers sinking easily into wet heat, your thighs pushing them deeper with each thrust, Palin moaning "Oh, God" over and over again. You can't help smirking  at the epithet falling from her lips. The God she believes in condemns exactly this, condemns her enjoyment of a woman's touch. You wonder how she'll justify this. She shudders, and you don't ease her return to earth, sliding away from her, pulling her from the desk, stepping around her, pushing her to her knees, leaning backwards as you grab her hair, pulling her close. Telling her to fuck you, knowing that you're completely in control. Her tongue works against your pussy, insistent, a little too much pressure but still pretty good, getting off on the power of having a woman this right-wing on her knees, her sobs mixing amongst the moans as you know she submits. It doesn't take long before the rush overtakes you, and you pull her away, watching as she wipes her face with the back of her hands and licks her lips, her hair a tangled mess, her make-up destroyed. Tearstains across her face as she realizes what she's done, how very counter to her "stringent" belief systems she has just behaved.

As the aftershock hits, the image enough to prolong the shiver a little more, you wonder exactly how truthful she was being when she said that 'living a gay lifestyle' was something she chose not to do. You'd always figured it for ignorance... but you have a feeling now that you aren't her first woman.

Pulling your clothes back into place as you watch her try to process what she's done, you smirk. "Little Beltway advice for you... fuck 'em or get fucked."

And you walk out of your office, head held high.


End file.
